


Le Cri de ma Naissance

by WildandWhirling



Series: The Abomination Verse [1]
Category: 1789 - バスティーユの恋人たち | 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Takarazuka Revue, 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: (It's okay - The cat lives), 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Animal Abuse, Because this kid deserves it, Canon has been twisted into a little balloon squirrel and given to Child!Lazare as a pet, Child Abuse, Even as a child, Hamfisted Animal Symbolism, It's the 18th Century and there's no child protective services, Lazare gets no slack from birds, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 05:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17217680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildandWhirling/pseuds/WildandWhirling
Summary: The Beauce, 1778.After a chance encounter, the young Chevalier de Peyrol forms a friendship with a peasant boy, with neither one of them knowing the consequences it will hold for their futures.





	Le Cri de ma Naissance

**Author's Note:**

> So, when I first watched 1789, when I was young and naive, I thought that Lazare was Ronan's feudal lord, hence why a nobleman was bothering with these random peasants. Then, years later, I fell into 1789 AGAIN and came up with the brilliant idea of "What if they were childhood friends? And Peyrol's reaction to Ronan in the French production was 'Not this guy again'?'" Which was great, until I rewatched the French production and realized...no. Lazare is just a random, unrelated nobleman who has very bad luck when it comes to running into Ronan. 
> 
> So, then I decided to do what I always do and twist canon to suit my own purposes, and thus was born this monstrosity. Here's to hoping it doesn't take me another year to update.

The Beauce stretched out before them, miles and miles of wheat fields, each of them indistinct from each other as they flew by the carriage in a whirl of gold. Above, there was a sharp, clear blue sky, only a few clouds to separate heaven from earth. And, ever present, there was the roll of the carriage as it skimmed over the dirt road.

“Remember, Lazare,” the boy’s grandfather said, clutching at the black walking stick that he toted with him everywhere, the silver wolf’s head at the top of it gleaming in the summer’s light that leaked through the window. “The Duc is a notorious radical. Do not listen to anything he says. Really, if it weren’t for absolute necessity, I would not have anything to do with him. Let this serve as a lesson to you: Sometimes, it we have to deal with people we cannot tolerate for the good of the family.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, fingers unconsciously tightening on the book he held in his hands.

The Comte de Peyol scowled. “And put that old book down. Why my son was so obsessed with this sentimental tripe is beyond me. I blame the influence of that featherbrain, the Comte de Tressan.” The next he seemed to murmur more to himself than Lazare, “Not the worst of his influences, mind you, but a hindrance nonetheless.”

“Yes, sir.” He put it off to the side, his fingers still occasionally tracing the letters outside of his grandfather’s line of vision.

Lazare was quiet as his grandfather went on, moving the small curtains in the carriage so they blotted out the background. He knew better than to raise his voice. That was only done in company, and only when he was spoken to. Then, he was to speak politely, properly, with as little a monopolization of time as possible. His opinion did not matter, all that mattered was that the de Peyrol family appeared at its best. No scandals, no dark corners. A normal family with a normal son who was a Very Intelligent Boy according to his tutor, soon destined for a normal career in the army. He knew what his place was. He did not dispute it. There was no reason to.

The carriage halted, the both of them lurching out of their seats. His grandfather stormed out of his seats to upbraid the driver for his careless stop, clutching hard onto the wolf’s head with gloved hands, (Lazare felt a jolt of fear before remembering the intended target), leaving Lazare alone with his thoughts.

A servant led them to the drawing room while others worked to carry their luggage, Lazare taking off his hat, stopping himself from twisting it in his hands. It was a terrible habit of his, always being in motion, pacing or playing with whatever was nearby. He’d been told it gave him a weak, anxious appearance, unbecoming of himself.    

The room itself was a soft yellow color, trimmed with white along the sides, in contrast to the rich red carpet beneath his feet. Half the room was taken up by a large birdcage made of gold and mother of pearl twisted and twined into the shape of a large building, like a magician had shrunken a great manor into the size of a cage and the inhabitants went about their day to day lives in miniature, unaware of the curse over them. (Superstitious, romantic nonsense, his grandfather wouldn’t approve of it.) From his grandfather's descriptions and various drawings he'd seen, he recognized the place as Versailles. In the center, a large blue bird perched, looking at them with sharp amber eyes.

At the center of the room, a man sat on a couch of cream silk along with a woman several decades his senior, rising to greet them with a dip of his head. “Monsieur le Comte de Peyrol.”

His grandfather responded with a bow, longer than Lazare had ever seen his grandfather give. “Monsieur le Duc de Rouchefoucauld.”

The man turned to Lazare. “And you must be the young Chevalier de Peyrol.”

He bowed as well, carefully following his grandfather’s example. “I am, Monsieur le Duc de la Rochefoucald.”

“And of course, you are familiar with my mother.” The woman stood up, stretching her arm out, and his grandfather kissed it, Lazare then imitating the gesture and getting a mouth full of powder in the process.

“But, come! The two of you must be exhausted. Here, sit down.”  

His grandfather stiffened. “I will sit down…I suppose. The boy stands.” Lazare could see him pasting a polite smile onto his face, “You must understand, Monsieur de Duc: My grandson is destined for a career in the military, like his father before him. We have a very proud military tradition in this family.”

The Duc’s brow furrowed. “As you wish.”

Lazare stood off to the side, his hat in his hand, as they discussed business, his grandfather reclining in a seat of satin, walking stick resting by his side as he would alternate between gripping it and relaxing, depending on the mood of the conversation. Outside, he could see the sun shining through the large window that overlooked the gardens, another world of marble-paved hedges and topiaries and twists and turns peaking through. It would be warm, he thought, out there. Peaceful. Even here, he could almost feel the sun on his skin. And it would be _interesting_ , to walk around, exploring the gardens. His grandfather’s chateau had no gardens. A servant once mentioned that his grandmother had kept one while she lived, but it had been left to die, the black, dead roots of it still filling the ground along the west side of the estate, tangled, rotten, weed-filled as they were.

When he’d first arrived at the estate, it had been winter, the dead garden frozen over, and there was a brief resurrection, where ice formed along the roots, the small, frozen droplets that hung along the stems like the crystals in the bright chandelier that shone above them. He had thought it beautiful, at the time. It wasn’t until long after his grandfather had walked him away to the training ground where Lazare went through his first drills, his grip burning Lazard’s wrist, that he learned that the ice was just an illusion to hide the real rot, that he shouldn’t waste his time on such little things.

With a small sigh, he decided that the Duc de la Rochefoucald’s garden was probably the same. Even if it was alive, it was a trifle, a _distraction_. What would he get from wasting his time for several hours, aimlessly walking around? Nothing.        

He tried to focus on the conversation of his grandfather and the Duc (though not _too_ intently, as his grandfather would be furious if he decided that he was gawking. There was a _balance_ to these things), but he found his attention increasingly drawn to the cage that shone in the sun that poured through the room and the bird who caught his attention with pale, alert eyes that seemed to meet his gaze head on.

The Duc turned his attention to Lazare from whatever he and his grandfather had been discussing. “I see you’ve noticed our little master of the house himself.”      

His grandfather glared at him, but neither the Duc nor his mother, who watched with a softened, patient eye that Lazare did not recognize or know how to handle, seemed to share it. “Feel free to go nearer, he’s worth the look.”

“Yes, please indulge my son,” the Dowager Duchesse said, eyeing Lazare as he hesitated, “He needs to feel validated in his pride. With our estate at Roche-Guyon, he receives nothing but praise all day, and I fear he withers on more neutral ground.” She smiled around her teacup, and Lazare didn’t understand why the Duc seemed so unaffected in light of the criticism. Though with his status, it was only natural to want praise and respect, so perhaps it _wasn’t_ a criticism, not in the way it would be from his grandfather.

Lazare cautiously approached the cage and, as he did, the bird flew down from his perch to crawl along the bars, so that they were the only distance separating them. They looked at each other, the boy and the bird, until the bird tilted his head. "Hello?"

Lazare fell backward. The bird spoke to him! Was he going mad?

From his couch, the Duc laughed. "He's a popinjay, I acquired him at a great expense."

"So, he does not…actually talk?"

"Goodness no! He only repeats what you say to him enough. For example, Phineas, what do you think of the notion of American Independence?"

The parrot flapped its wings and then, in a distorted, throaty voice, squawked, "Vive Washington! Vive Washington!"

"See? What I wish him to say, he says." He turned to Lazare's grandfather. "I get offers of thousands of _livres_ for him, however I could hardly bear to part with him."

"Does he not ever wish for freedom?" As he spoke, his grandfather scowled, and he knew that it was a foolish question. Better to keep his mouth shut. He had made enough of a fool of himself by believing that a lower creature could talk. It was not its place to have human speech.

"Freedom? Heavens no! He hardly knows the meaning of the term. All of his life has been spent here with us. He should hardly know what to do with himself. He is not human, see? He isn't like us."

"He knows his proper place," his grandfather growled. "Which is a lesson many men would do well to learn.” Lazare knew not to shrink back or it would be worse, even as he internally cringed.

"You can stroke his head, if you wish to?"

Lazare looked at his grandfather, unwilling to do anything that might displease him even as he imagined lightly running his fingers over the soft blue feathers. "Go on, boy," his grandfather said and Lazare, hesitatingly, turned and poked a finger between the gilded bars, only to pull back immediately, his finger covered in blood as the bird shrieked, flapping its large wings.

He did not allow himself to cry. He knew his grandfather would call him weak if he did so. Other men made a mistake, grandfather said, when they said that crying was a sign of humanity. It only showed weakness, softness. Lazare's father had been soft and had been put in his coffin before the age of thirty for it. So, instead he swallowed the lump in his throat and waited for the pain to ease.

His grandfather's hand fell heavy on his shoulder, gripping it like the parrot did his perch as he did so. "Even when it's in a cage, it still has a bite." He turned to Lazare, as if remembering he was there, and then said, quietly, so that their host wouldn’t hear. "You'd do well to remember that. A little caged parrot has more spirit than my own grandson, my _heir_."

"Yes, sir," he said blandly, politely, even as his voice wavered slightly as he gripped the hurt finger, though he wasn’t sure whether it was out of pain or concealed rage, which he tried to be careful in quieting whenever it popped up. It wasn’t his place, he knew, to be mad at his grandfather. His grandfather was his natural guardian, his superior; it was Lazare’s duty to respect and fear him, and in return he would direct his life to its best proper use.

"That won't serve you well on the battlefield, not at all. The first time you get a scratch on your knee, you'll cry in front of your men, won't you? In front of a group of peasant's sons, brutes to a man?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, steadying his breathing. “No, sir.” He did not cry, he would _not_ cry.

“No?” His grandfather’s voice took on an edge of warning. Lazare shook his head firmly.

The Duc got off the couch and walked over to him, frowning. "My apologies. I am so accustomed to Phineas I had quite forgotten the bite. May I?" Lazare showed him his finger. He tutted. “Oh, this is quite a serious matter. You should have someone see to it.”

Lazare's grandfather stiffened. "It is nothing to be concerned for. The boy is overly sensitive, a weakness of his mother."

Lazare nodded. His grandfather was right. If he couldn't handle a little bird bite, how was he ever going to lead men into battle? He could be strong, he knew he could. "It is nothing."

"Nonsense! It wouldn't take a minute! My poor Louise would have done it in another time, but alas, I have only my own skills to recommend now. Mother, could you please entertain the Comte de Peyrol while I tend to his grandson?”

“It would be my pleasure,” the woman said, and Lazare’s grandfather was only able to protest for a moment before he was being lead into a discussion on a letter she’d been writing to the American, Benjamin Franklin, and _oh what a brilliant man he is_ and _Oh, surely you’ve read some of his works? He has quite the wit about him_ and _I truly do feel for the Colonies in America, and the outrages which they’ve suffered._

The Duc led him to a brightly lit room, where he sat him down in a green velvet chair. Lazare looked around, unsure what to do. This was the Duc de la Rouchefoucald, a man who his grandfather needed, but didn’t respect, but he was also superior to both of them in status; he was more important than Lazare would ever be in his life by his birth alone. What if he said something wrong? What if he disappointed his grandfather?

He trained his face to be as impassive as possible, instead focusing on the carpet at his feet, at the shine of the golden threads that worked along the edge of it, at the three rectangles, all well aligned, with twining floral patterns in red and green and orange. Then, in the center rectangle, a box with several instruments in it.

The Duc leant over, a bit of cloth in his hand. Lazare forced himself to look him in the eye. “You like my carpet, do you?”

Lazare nodded. “The colors complement each other well, Monsieur le Duc de Rouchefoucald.”

A slight chuckle from the man, which Lazare didn’t understand. Had he done something wrong?

“You’re a very formal boy, aren’t you?” He wrapped it tightly around the wound.

Lazare nodded, keeping his eyes averted from the little speck of blood that tinted the cloth. “My grandfather has taken every effort in my care and schooling.”

The Duc gave a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m sure he has.” He paused, swallowing. Strange, Lazare didn’t think that men of his rank and age did such things. “Tell me, Monsieur de Peyrol, outside of your schooling, how does he treat you?”

Was this a test? Some means of deciding whether or not he was an obedient child? It hardly made sense. What was he supposed to say? What did he want him to say?

“He treats me well. I want for nothing. He has stepped admirably into his role upon my father’s death.”  

The Duc nodded, though it was more to himself than Lazare, who patiently waited for him to speak again. “And, outside of your schooling, what do you do?”

“Do, Sir?” What was there to do? Just wasteful frivolities. His grandfather was wise enough, after the early death of his father, to discourage such things. Lazare was meant for the Army, anyway, and there wasn’t any point in filling his head with anything else. A man, barring a genius, could only be master of one occupation, and his life had already been plotted out and pinned like one of the maps that his grandfather kept in his study, all yellow paper and black lines and little points where a pin could be placed. Here he was born, here is where he learned to read and write, here he was old enough to carry a bayonet for the first time, here he would start his military career, here he would become captain and colonel and general, here he would marry, here he would produce an heir, here he would attain the rank of Grand Marshal, and here he would die, assuming that he had not already given his life for his country. In light of all that, there really wasn’t much else to do.

“For your own amusement.”

Lazare shook his head. “I do nothing of the sort.” And then, at seeing his frown, he added, quickly to correct himself from whatever error he’d made, “My greatest pleasure is to better my own future. Everything I do is to that end. I’m not like others of my generation, always going about doing nothing.”

When his grandfather was pleased with him, he was happy. Sometimes, he would even pat him on the head after a particularly long drilling session, or his eyes would soften slightly from across the yard as he stood at attention. Sometimes, when the winter was too hard on his grandfather’s bones, they would sit together in front of a fireplace, his grandfather talking to him about the glories of the battlefield, of honor, of duty, of loyalty, of what it was like to feel an enemy’s blood on his hands when he served, of their place as the descendants of a warrior race, a race that had once even invaded the mighty Rome. (A degenerate society, his grandfather’d said, not fit for their place of prominence, which was why Lazare still didn’t know any Latin save for a little of what he’d caught at Mass.) They were the best—the only ones suitable to defend France, and his grandfather was simply trying to help him take his rightful place in such a way that, when he finally did it, he would not bring shame to the family.

The Duc leaned over. “When I was a boy, I ran all around the Chateau de la Roche-Guyon. I knew every hill and every tree. Now, of course, I have my own small farm there.”

Lazare’s mouth must have betrayed him with a twitch, as the man asked, “What’s so amusing?”

He stilled, trying to think of the words that wouldn’t offend him. His grandfather would _flay_ him if he managed to insult the Duc after only one meeting. “It is just…unusual, is it not? That one of the most well-connected men in the land should take such an interest in farming. I should think it would be beneath your notice.” He’d always understood the management of the estate as an unfortunate necessity, one of the long list of his future responsibilities that were to be carried out. The money from that would pay for his commission, as well as all the costs of maintaining a regiment. It wasn’t something to be _enjoyed_.  Who would enjoy flipping around dirt all day? Surely they were born for something…more?

“Oh, I would hardly be so sure about that. I do not boast a military mind like that of your grandfather, of course, but I have yet to hear of an innovation so great that an army is capable of sustaining itself without a stomach.”

“No, Sir, there are daily and weekly rations. A pound of meat, or fish on fasting days. A pound loaf of bread, or something else. Grandfather says that it tends to run out quickly on campaign so substitutions are often made. And then to drink either milk or ale, though not enough to spread drunkenness.” Lazare felt his chest swell slightly as he recited them dutifully, one by one. His grandfather had been sure to list them out, even as he’d told Lazare that he would probably have little to do with anything as common as the day to day routines. It was important, as the officer, for him to know every aspect of the regiment, down to a single bit of corn meal. It would make it that much easier to detect and punish theft when it occurred, as the brigands who would be under his command were not to trusted, at least until he’d demonstrated that he could keep them under heel.

“So, either beef or pork, bred and tended to on a farm, bread, from wheat grown on a farm, milk, from cows raised on a farm, perhaps the very dames of the unfortunate sources of your beef, and ale created from barley. And, of course, the uniforms of your men, wool of some sort, sheared from sheep. The wine that would be served to the officers, from grapes grown in a vineyard.You see? You will depend on the work of farmers far more than you ever anticipated, just to keep your regiment in order for a day. It is an incredibly important job, and it is one that we take so little notice of.”

Lazare nodded, still feeling unsure about the entire business. He understood that farming had its place and its uses, and that for some people it probably gave some sort of fulfillment, but _he_ had no interest in it, nor did he really understand why anyone would bother with it if they didn’t have to.

“But I’ve probably bored you enough for one day. A boy your age is hardly likely to be interested in such things.”

Lazare straightened his back. “On the contrary. I am interested in everything having to do with my future.”

The Duc chuckled. “But believe me, young Monsieur de Peyrol, if I’d my way, I would talk of nothing but farming all day. But it is neither the topic of the hour or the audience, and so I will release you back into society.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Lazare said, before realizing how his words had been misconstrued. If he was at home, he would have already felt a cane going down on him. As it was, he relied entirely on the Duc’s indulgence, adding quickly, “For your hospitality and generosity towards me. I promise I will not do anything so foolish again.”

“Oh, think nothing of it,” he said, “And I am so sorry, once again, for Phineas. Once he becomes accustomed to you, he is perfectly charming, however in his own space he can be a little beast.”

“I’m sure he is only defending his domain,” Lazare said.

The Duc put a hand on Lazare’s shoulder as they left, and Lazare was able to successfully keep himself from cringing at the contact. “A strange thing, is it not? Defending a cage? But, such is the case of things.”

His grandfather looked winded upon their return, hiding his face behind a large handkerchief that he would discreetly cough into whenever words like “liberty” or “natural rights” were mentioned. The Dowager Duchesse, for her part, kept a serene, matronly smile fixed upon her face, hands folded primly in her lap, rising to greet her son when he returned.

“I had worried that some misfortune had befallen you!” She said.

“Not at all,” he replied, in an easy, jovial tone, “I was just having a charming discussion with young Monsieur de Peyrol here.”

“I trust he isn’t boring you,” his grandfather said, black leather gloves casually wrapping around the wolf’s head, his fingers covering the eyes, and Lazare tried to hide his nervousness behind a blank face. If he showed any emotion, it’d just be worse.  

“Oh, not at all! The boy is...beyond his years, in intelligence. He’s a credit to your name, you must be very proud.”

Lazare looked at his grandfather, knowing not to show eagerness or to expect any sort of reward. Duty was its own best reward. But perhaps...

His grandfather eyed him critically, moving his hand regretfully away from the cane. “He suffices, I suppose. I put a great deal of effort in his training, you know, with my own time and effort. Modeled after the practices of our École Militaire and the practices of the Prussian Army. Our own military has fallen behind in recent days, relying on boys softened by court life who are more busy in...” he looked to the Dowager Duchesse, as if suddenly remembering that there was a lady in the room, “Unsuitable places than in the fulfillment of their duties. France needs to become great again, and that begins in the home.”

“Yes...” the Duc said, distractedly, though why Lazare had no idea. What could he be thinking about? Had he changed his mind about him suddenly? Had he said something, done something? Though it wasn’t his place to wonder, he knew. Then, the Duc seemed to come back to himself, “Yes, he told me of the great care you put in his training.”

His grandfather rose up from the chair, gray coat flowing along the ground, and as he stood in front of Lazare, it was like he was looking up at one great shadow, and his eyes again locked on the cane, at those two red wolf’s eyes looking at him. His grandfather patted Lazare’s head slowly, looking down on him with subtle, muted pride and Lazare understood it. _You did well_. He allowed himself to feel a little bit of pride.

“Yes, I expect great things from the boy. Very great."

**Author's Note:**

> So, I made one major mistake with this: When I was doing research for local noblemen for the Peyrols to be visiting, I came across the Chateau d'Esclimont, which was perfect! It was large, grand, had plenty of pictures so I could get a visualization going, was a stone's throw away from Chartres, and had connections to the powerful Rochefoucauld family. And when I did research on Louis Alexandre, I realized that he was the PERFECT fit, and the more I did, the more I thought it. 
> 
> There was one problem, however. The Rochefoucauld family didn't HAVE possession of the Chateau d'Esclimont until the 19th century, long after my boy was dead. And I couldn't find any references to Louis Alexandre having anything in the Beauce to justify his presence, but I also couldn't *not* have him in so I just...plopped him here. I'm pretending this is just some random estate of his, because it's not like he would be *unusual* for being in multiple places. 
> 
> And yes, he did love farming. Very, very much. Almost as much as he loved American Independence. And re-distributed wealth. 
> 
> So, we still don't have an exact location for Ronan's village. He's just...somewhere in the Beauce. Hiding in the cornfields. Actual cryptid Ronan Mazurier. 
> 
> And, sadly, Phineas the parrot is 100% fictional. As with all demonic birds that pop up in my writing, I took inspiration from my own sweet miniature raptor, Macy.


End file.
